


Light-Years

by sofa_and_stuff



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, F/M, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied Relationships, M/M, Other, Post-Time Skip, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofa_and_stuff/pseuds/sofa_and_stuff
Summary: Some eighteen thousand odd kilometers divide Japan and Argentina. How long will it take Oikawa to bridge this distance? How long will it take his lover to follow?
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Light-Years

**Author's Note:**

> Oikawa brain rot (I’m shit at summaries im so sorry)

Outerspace is vast and endless. An infinite, complex void of known and unknown, surrounding everything, reaching every part of an ongoing story.

When you were younger—both of you chubby cheeked with big, round eyes—Tо̄ru had dragged you along to a planetarium. His small hand gripped yours tightly as he led you around to each little plaque and model, his mother trailing behind you, smiling at the wonder painted on her son’s face.

He had talked on and on that day—as much as a small kid could, his words coming out far too quickly, tumbling out of his mouth and jumbling together in his excitement. You supposed Tо̄ru had always been fascinated by the unknown, had always shown the curiosity gripping his heart, a tight hold on him, an urge pulling him forward, forward, forward. Into the unknown, into the future.

“We use time as a distance!” He’d said. “That’s why they’re called light- _years_!” Little Tо̄ru’s smile was so bright, so beaming and happy, that you, young but still smart enough to know that he was wrong, didn’t correct him.

When Tо̄ru had spoken to you, told you that afternoon after your graduation, you couldn’t help but think that all those years ago he was right. Maybe not about light-years, but about time. After all, some eighteen thousand kilometers sure did seem like a _long time_. They would take years with Tо̄ru away from you.

You sat on the steps outside of his childhood home, his jacket on your shoulders dwarfing your frame as you leaned into his side, desperate for some kind of warmth. The early months of spring were still cold, and with the sun setting, a muted orange bleeding into a midnight blue, chills only multiplied. Tо̄ru’s hand—the pads of his fingers calloused, the rest of his hand surprisingly soft, not what one would expect of a setter—had gripped yours tightly, like he was holding on, holding you and your presence as desperately as he could. He was staring out, up at the stars, away and far into the future. He’d always dreamed of space as a kid. Of aliens and the unknown. All the possibilities, all the futures—all the things that this endless chasm held in it.

He had chosen, though. Now he had figured out his future, had picked his possibilities, the places that he could see himself. And you weren't by his side. Not yet. Not close enough in the future.

He was going to Argentina, and he was leaving you behind.

When Tо̄ru had told you, you realized you could not bridge this gap, you could not walk this distance. Your paths were diverging here. He was picking his ambitions, and you weren’t selfish enough to pick yours. Tо̄ru _was_ your ambition. You had known since he had given you a flower in junior high—a primrose. A small gesture, you supposed, but one that solidified him in your life, solidified him in your plans. You’d known it was pathetic, to let your future be dictated by a stupid flower, by a brown-haired boy in middle school. But you wanted nothing more than to follow him to the ends of the earth. And then, when you reached there, you would go further. Walk into the unknown together. There was nowhere in this infinite sprawl of space that you would not travel for him. And he knew that.

When he had told you, his expression steeled—a tactic he’d used throughout childhood, you’d watched him use it to mask his feelings. To cover up what you could usually read clouding his expressions.

“You can’t come with.”

This was something he had to do alone, he explained, knuckles almost white as he gripped your hand tighter and tighter, his brows knitting and mask _almost_ falling off. You’d been with him forever, too long, too many kilometers, too many hiking trails and walks home from school. He needed to do this alone. _Alone_. Needed to prove to you that he was good enough. That he was worthy. _Of what?_ You’d wondered, unsure of what he’d meant. He’d needed to prove to himself that was _good enough_. Needed this, needed to leave everything and walk into the unknown alone.

And who were you to deny him? How could you? His eyes had welled up, his mask had fallen off. All you saw then was the boy who’d taken you to a planetarium. So small, so fragile—curiosity driving him forward, forward, forward. And under that, a scared kid. The kid who’d scraped his knees, who’d messed his fingers up more times than you could count. He was showing you this, his vulnerability, asking you to see _him_ and to accept his wish.

You were not selfish when it came to him. Not enough. Not enough to close the distance that he would be putting between the two of you.

There was never a time you could remember without Tо̄ru, not a single memory lacking him. Which is why, perhaps, the idea of distance between the two of you hurt you so much.

Maybe this universe wasn’t big enough for the both of you to exist in it. Suddenly the corners of space are suffocating, a cramped sort of feeling with a boy that you’ve only ever felt freely, felt infinite with.

Tо̄ru didn’t want you to follow him. Didn’t want to walk into the unknown with you.

Maybe this was why you didn’t show up to the airport, why you’d laid in bed, staring blankly out the window, watching airplanes pass by—wondering if he was on one of them. This was why you stopped talking to him. Cut him off the moment you’d left the steps of his home. You couldn’t bear that distance, that burden of waiting. You’d waited your whole life to really, truly be with him, only to have him say that he didn’t want you. Not yet, at least. Not now.

He was giving you time. _He_ would give _you_ time, he’d thought. He’d wait for you to call. Wait for you to respond. It would be on your terms. The only thing on your terms. How unfair he’d been, he’d thought. Refusing to let you come with. But this was something he had to do alone. He had to prove himself. Had to prove his worth. Had to push himself further. He _needed_ to.

And you were giving him distance. What he wanted. He didn’t want you. He didn’t. He’d made it clear. He’d made it clear with eighteen thousand kilometers. With a plan to be apart for at least a year. So you were giving him everything he wanted. The distance he so desperately asked you for.

Eighteen thousand kilometers turns into five years. Five years turn into faded memories, fuzzy feelings that only sometimes come up as sharp pain. A sort of stabbing, aching feeling that attacks you from the smallest part of your chest and floods through your body, up your throat. One that makes you reach for your phone, causes your hand to hover over a number—one you’re not sure still even belongs to the recipient. A voice bubbling up, thoughts of what to say popping up in your head like flowers growing in a vacant lot. You always manage to squash them down. Dull the pain, the ache—think about that last night, the way he’d held your hand so tightly you felt like it’d bruise. A real kind of pain.

And maybe you’re happy now, knowing he’s happy. He’s content. Seeing his face on your laptop, so proud of himself, of what he’s done, of where he is. You can relish in his happiness, in the brief smiles of his that the press gets, the pictures you see of him on magazines when you buy your groceries. You realize his expressions have softened—from the little you see of him. He looks so much more… at peace with himself. So maybe, you think, your distancing did something. Helped him. And maybe that was enough. Maybe you were content with that.

You are so quickly proven wrong, though, when a ring of your phone sounds through your room, a name—one you’ve only ever seen on magazines and TV screens for the past five years—flashing at you.

It’s nighttime—your phone lighting up your dark room, flashing like a plane in the sky. And you think maybe, _maybe_ you’ve waited long enough, let the distance grow so much, that you’re finally ready. And so you step into the unknown. You pick up your phone, hands shaky and eyes glossy.

You answer.

**Author's Note:**

> ive been experiencing some uhhhh hhh h writers block. um,, i hope yall liked this though! As always, comments are really appreciated--it motivates me to write more.


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